


A few mistakes along the way

by Broken_Story_locker



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Abe touching corpses is mentioned, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy Horror, Death, Mark is trapped in the morgue, Marks kids are mentioned, Short Story, implied tramatic events, mentions of death and immortality, references to jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21866374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broken_Story_locker/pseuds/Broken_Story_locker
Summary: Mark is not having a good week.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	A few mistakes along the way

The time is 4:20 am on a Wednesday. Mark died during surgery the day prior after getting into a car accident, how he died wasn't an accident. Remember, Mark has children. Mark has lots of kids in fact. He made them but he is not their father. Being the selfish man that he is, he doesn't see them as his own children due to having Damien's genetics. The real reason he is not their father though is that he never cared for or even raised any of his children. To him they are just a byproduct of sleeping around. People were abandoned in important moments, ignored, and lied to. He believes he is the master of his own destiny. Karma came to kick him in the ass. The Lead surgeon at this particular hospital was none other than Dr. Iplier, aka, his son Edward Iplier.  
Coming back to the present moment, Mark is laying awake on a cold steel tray in a sealed cadaver closet. He is completely naked and covered in a thin sheet. The pain radiating from the core of his chest outward tells him that he is missing a lung. Not a great way to start a day, but at least he knows that he is still an immortal. The space is unpleasantly cold. Trying to roll over stresses his weakened muscles and starts a coughing fit. There is a loud clatter as he collapses back onto the try, rattling the tracks of the shelf. He managed to land on his stomach, slamming down on the stapled Y-incision in his chest sending a surge of pain.  
Mark cries loudly out through his teeth “Oh god, that hurts!” fading into a hiss.  
There are now noises coming from outside the closet. Mark does his best to play dead.  
“Hello? Is somebody here?...” Whoever is out there sounds male and caught off guard.  
Mark thinks he should try to wait and see if the person leaves. His remaining lung had other plans. The familiar tingle ran up his throat. Another coughing fit was coming. The person outside sounded like they were searching the room for where the sounds came from.  
Tried as he might to hold back, he began a chain of raspy barks, half certain he would end up hacking up his other lung. The person outside had no doubts about the noise. Metal clanged and squeaked at the person hesitantly opened the door to Mark's cubby. The chest spasms prevent Mark from doing anything. He quickly thinks of a plan, “as soon as that door is open I need to make a run for it.”  
Suddenly the door is ripped open.  
“MARK?!” Detective Abe yells in shock.  
Mark is able to talk once more, scrapping the plan.  
“Heeeyy, Aaaaabe,” Mark whines in a perturbed yet somewhat friendly tone, embarrassed by being caught, “How's it been?”  
Abe is flabbergasted, cold as stone he says, “I have been going through years of therapy to get over what happened at your shitty party.”  
They are in a stalemate. Mark knows that if Abe finds out that he was responsible for poker night he is screwed. On the other hand Mark knows that Abe knows that he knows that Abe has been violating corpses. Abe is going to attempt to interrogate him, it is a certainty. If Abe wants answers he is going to do everything in his power to find them. There is no way for Mark to leave the hospital until he can find a way to get away from Abe. Mark concludes that the best option is to speak with the detective and lead the conversation in a direction that makes Abe want or need to leave.  
Mark sits up on the table with the sheet covering his lower half, and continues, “So uhhhh, have you seen Wilford anywhere recently?”  
“I'm not telling you anything. Explain, in detail, what the fuck happened at the manor.”  
“You really aren't going easy on me are you.”  
Abe takes a deep breath in then slowly lets it back out to steady his nerves, then says “You are lucky, you know that right? I'm not talking about being an actor or having a hot ass. I'm talking about the kind of luck a person has to avoid misfortune. I know close to zilch about magic, but if I was the same man that I was the years following that night, I would have found a way to kill you and made sure that you stayed dead. But that's obvious, isn't it.”  
“Um, yeah kinda. Uh, why are you in the morgue alone at this hour?”  
“Stop trying to change the subject. Why aren't you dead? Tell me what you know.”

“It all started when I was born at the ripe old age of three in Idaho. I know that's a long time for somebody to be pregnant but my mom had this genetic condition that she got from her mother who got it from her grandmother who got it from-”  
Abe interrupts Mark's speech, “An innocent man wouldn't be stalling this much.”  
“I'm not stalling, I'm just starting from the beginning!” Mark says in mock aghast.  
Abe tilts his head, staring at Mark, blankly stating, “It has been over a hundred years since the last time we met, Mark. Do you honestly believe that a guy who has been doing detective work for one-hundred-and-twenty-five years has not improved in the slightest?”  
Mark stutters, “Oh n-no, I di- no um. I didn't mean to imply such a thing. Sometimes it's hard to keep track of things, know you?”  
“Quit the Loony-tunes. I. Need. Answers. I know of the affair between Wil and Celine, I have died three times and come back each time, Wilford has turned pink, Damien and Celine are the same person, and reality keeps flipping out. For the last time, Mark, tell me what happened.”


End file.
